


Muse of Defiance

by The_Exile



Category: Green Rider Series - Kristen Britain
Genre: Blood Magic, Demonic Possession, Gen, Short, Spoilers, probably AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Exile/pseuds/The_Exile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A plain-faced, simple girl finds her muse, her voice and her chance to be a person. POV of Lala post-BV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muse of Defiance

**Author's Note:**

> Please note I have not read Mirror Sight yet so have no idea if this contradicts canon.

Lala had found her voice and now she was going to say what she felt like saying.

As soon as the plain-looking girl in the dirty shift spoke for the first time, Grandmother was by her side, as always. Her look was one of pride, maybe even of fondness buried deep down there somewhere, but also possessiveness and plotting, a thousand schemes already hatching in light of the new information that her simpleton grand-daughter and assistant in all things could talk. 

The first song she sang was angelic with the clarity of mad innocence, even with the things she had been taught to help Grandmother do and carefully encouraged, with legitimate praise, to learn to do herself. It was also demonic, in that it was a perfect surrender to the dark, ancient presence she had finally become a mouthpiece for. Grandmother had wanted her to sing more songs. Lala had begun singing a light-hearted drinking song she liked to listen to the workers sing, enjoying the cheerful atmosphere, but Grandmother stopped her and explained sternly that she was supposed to sing the old songs of her alliegance to the Empire.

Lala didn't want to sing those songs any more, or speak those words, or play the game with the string that she knew wasn't a game. She wanted to sing whatever cheered her up , or at the very least, the more interesting songs that her secret Muse taught her. She wanted to use the words and the string tricks and the blood tricks for herself. She had a voice, now, and that meant she was a whole person again, so it was okay to not agree with Grandmother all the time. After all, hadn't it been Grandmother who taught her to take something if she wanted it? That, and the joy of being loyal to something greater than herself, but Lala was fairly sure her Muse was something greater than an Empire. She remembered being taught that Empires were only made up of mortals and that even their Emperor was only a man.

Yes, Lala was a person now and more than anything, she feared to lose this, even to Grandmother. She knew that Grandmother wanted to take care of her and stop anyone else leading her astray but she also understood the price. Lala would not be owned by Grandmother, even though she would never have come into existence in this world without the old woman who had tended to her for most of her life with something approaching love. Creating something didn't matter if you didn't let it develop into what it was supposed to be, and Lala knew that she was meant to create things of her own, things borne half of her Muse that might one day surpass even Grandmother's magic. They had the right to exist, not to be quashed by someone else who liked to delude themselves that they had ownership rights over something more alive than mortals, as though it were a pie for sale in the markets she was sometimes allowed to go to, as long as she didn't talk to any strangers. Strangers who wanted to steal her, the one who Grandmother wanted to keep for herself. That a few clever tricks were the same as controlling something that spoke time into being.

Lala didn't have the power quite yet to do what she knew she soon must, so she had stopped coming when she was called, pretending that it was just a mad girl's tantrum. She had started finding new places to hide, places that were easier to find if you were a dishevelled, half-wild idiot girl who nobody really cared about, places warm and dry where she could practice those songs, words and interesting tricks with balls of string and peoples' blood that they kept on passing to her without even thinking about it.


End file.
